Blue, White, Red
by George deValier
Summary: Human AU. 1777; The American Revolutionary War. Three times, American rebel Alfred Jones meets British soldier Arthur Kirkland. One blue; one white; one red.
1. Blue

_Pairing: Alfred Jones/Arthur Kirkland (US/UK)_

_Summary: Human AU. 1777. The American Revolutionary War. Three times, American rebel Alfred Jones meets British soldier Arthur Kirkland. One blue; one white; one red._

* * *

**BLUE**

* * *

The first time, Alfred is washing his feet. He whistles as he does so, happily splashing his ankles in the cool, blue water of the cool, blue lake. His boots, jacket and rifle sit unheeded beside him, a crumpled heap of brown and blue, a forgotten bundle of discipline and duty. Alfred throws back his head and smiles at the warm sunlight on his face; laughs up at the clear, blue sky. It is a beautiful day, and a beautiful sky, and a beautiful place to be lost.

It has been one whole night and one whole day. But Alfred has been lost for longer, and he knows he will find his regiment again. This is many miles north from his farm in Virginia, but Alfred still knows this country. He knows the wild yellow fields behind him and the hanging black willow trees beside him. He knows the warm, clean scent of the sweeping breeze and the endless blue sky above; knows the fresh touch of the green grass against his fingers and the cool stroke of the depthless blue water at his feet. Alfred knows this country, and here he can never truly be lost. This country is why he will fight. This country is the reason for the rifle at his side.

Alfred is not used to the discipline of the army. But when his country cried for liberty, he did as any patriot should: he enlisted, and he pledged to fight for its freedom. Seventeen years spent running through forests and fields and rivers, Alfred has never known anything _but_ freedom. But he thinks, as he splashes his feet and laughs at the sky, that if this is war, it's not so bad.

The intruding presence shudders down his spine before it sounds in his ears. A rustle in the grass behind; a faint shift of the wind. Alfred's shoulders stiffen and his gut tightens. Tensing excitement floods his veins. Slowly, carefully, he stretches his hand behind him: past the rough fabric of his discarded jacket, the newly-cobbled tread of his boots, until the cool, hard butt of his rifle brushes his knuckles. Swiftly, he grasps it, hauls it to his shoulder; swiftly, he turns.

The warm breeze gusts broadly; a flock of birds fly from a nearby willow. The enemy soldier's body is straight, his rifle pointed down at Alfred with an expert grip and aim. "Lower your weapon, rebel." The British voice seems to carry on the wind. His uniform is red, white, blue - the right colours in the wrong arrangement.

Alfred's eyes are wide, his skin tingling. Sight, scent, sound - his senses overwhelm him. His breath is thunder in his ears. He stares from where he crouches on the ground, his hands surprisingly steady on the rifle. "Lower yours."

The enemy raises his chin, stares down his nose. "I won't."

Alfred does not know how to respond to that. His heart is pounding against his chest, pounding so hard it feels it is trying to beat through his skin. Alfred has not seen battle. He has never seen a British soldier so close. A few times he has passed them, lying dead: broken bodies on broken carts or uneven corpses contorted on fences. Some of the men laugh - Alfred looks away, and those unseeing eyes haunt him for days. But this close, this real, this _alive… _Alfred swallows heavily, the countryside turning vivid and clear around him. He tightens his grip. "Neither will I."

The soldier's lips turn, startlingly, into a smirk. "Well. I suppose we are at rather an impasse, aren't we, rebel?"

The world changes. The war becomes real. Everything Alfred has been told to hate is now before him: before him, and aiming a rifle at his heart. Not a monster but a man, speaking words he understands. Alfred's very universe spins, and it spins right back to his rifle. It is all he has now.

It takes perhaps an hour, and a fair bit of manoeuvring, but eventually Alfred settles his back against a willow tree. His rifle is still pointed towards the enemy soldier, sitting against the tree opposite, his own weapon still aimed at Alfred. The slowly descending sky sends a golden gleam across the clear blue lake, and the evening birds are already starting to sing. Alfred rests his arm against his knee, refusing to let his rifle droop. He takes a moment to inspect the British soldier. He is older than Alfred, with a worn pack and tattered boots, and his red jacket is embroidered with gold lace. He looks tired, but he is oddly handsome, and his intense stare has not wavered once. Finally Alfred takes an accepting breath and speaks. "Alfred."

The Brit looks briefly thrown. "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, I ain't lowering this rifle anytime soon, and I'm gonna make a guess you ain't lowering yours neither. So I figured that if we're gonna be sittin' here like this 'till doomsday, we may as well be civil like and introduce ourselves. Alfred." Alfred nods. "The name's Alfred."

The Brit pauses as though stunned. He seems to think about answering, then steadies his rifle on his knee before he does. "Captain Kirkland of the Royal Fusiliers. London Regiment."

"Captain?" Alfred whistles. "Fancy. I'm only a private. At least, that's what they're always yellin' at me. You must've been in the army a long time. Captain's real high, ain't it? Ye're a long way from your regiment out here, though. You get lost or somethin'?"

Kirkland tilts his head, framed by the leaves that fall from the willow tree behind him. His face is bewildered, casting that same stare Alfred has received his entire life, from family and farmhands to soldiers and slaves. Alfred is always told he does not know his place. But this British captain's bewildered stare is also curious, and strangely amused. "What do you know of my regiment's movements, rebel?"

Alfred raises a free hand, lets his rifle slip slightly. "Hey, I know nothin' but that I ain't seen a live Brit since… well, ever, to be truthful. I only left home a few weeks ago. I ain't seen no… er… Royal Fusleers 'round anywhere. So I wondered if ye'd got lost."

The corner of Kirkland's lip rises in a sneer. "I am not lost. I am a veteran of twelve campaigns. I do not get _lost_."

"Ah. Right." Alfred nods, looks at the blue lake and the green trees and the violet sky. "If ye're not lost then, do you mind telling me where we are? Because I, well… I sort of am."

Kirkland stares for a moment more before letting out a brief breath of laughter. It only lasts a short moment, however, and he forces himself to stare evenly at Alfred once again. "Is your militia so unorganised? Were you not given a map, American?"

Alfred feels his forehead furrow angrily. "Sure I was. I probably left it in my pack, give me a minute…" It isn't until he places his rifle on the ground that Alfred realises what he has done. The skin burns on his neck, the muscles in his back tense painfully. His hand trembles above his foolishly abandoned weapon and he looks up slowly, warily, at the smugly triumphant British soldier.

"There." The soldier manages to look superior and sympathetic at the same time. To Alfred's incredulous surprise, the captain deliberately places his own rifle down beside him. "That was not so difficult, was it?"

Alfred's blood thrums wildly to his head. "Y'ain't gonna shoot me?"

The Brit pauses, his large eyebrows drawing together. "Who would shoot an unarmed man?"

Alfred raises his chin and replies with all the certainty of rebellion. "An Englishman!"

Kirkland raises one great, bushy eyebrow. "Do you believe that not a single Englishman would have the slightest hesitation in shooting an unarmed American?"

"Well…" Alfred trails into the uncertainty of reason. "Well, why else are we fightin' this war?"

Kirkland gives a tiny shrug. "Why _are_ you fighting this war?"

This annoys Alfred. He folds his arms huffily and kicks out his feet. "Don't go gettin' smart, English."

"Arthur." His lips turn upwards slightly. "The name's Arthur."

Arthur joined the redcoats because his father did. Arthur fights the Americans because he believes in loyalty, tradition, and duty. Arthur has oranges in his pack, and tobacco, and a thick, torn book from which he draws lines of poetry.

Minutes pass like seconds. Alfred savours the taste of fresh fruit after weeks of dry bread. Arthur offers Alfred dried leaf for his pipe, but Alfred does not have one. "_But when the blast of war blows in our ears," _Arthur reads,_ "Then imitate the action of the tiger: stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood."_

Alfred does not understand that. All he understands is that Arthur is noble and proud, with golden hair and a coat of red, more a lion than this tiger he speaks of. He has paper white skin and eyes as green as willow trees. Arthur is one real, good thing in these few hard, blood-tinged weeks. Arthur is an enemy, but he is the first man to give his words to Alfred, and he is nothing like the evil royalists Alfred is told are choking this country. It is as the sun is finally dipping below the horizon, the last of its golden light spreading over the water, that Alfred realises. In fact… "I like you, Arthur."

Arthur's lips might turn into a smile, or he might just look away and place his hand over his mouth. Either way, his words come in a sarcastic monotone when he replies. "I am so very delighted."

"D'you think we'll ever see each other again?" It is the first either has spoken of departure, and Arthur lowers his head at the words.

"It is highly doubtful."

Alfred believes insistently. "If we do, it'll be fate, won't it?"

Arthur sneers at that. "No. If anything, it would be a coincidence."

Alfred leans forward earnestly. Maybe they believe things differently in England. But the kind ladies on the nearby plantations always speak of fate, and to Alfred it always makes sense. "Don't you believe in destiny, Arthur?"

Arthur only scoffs as he places the yellow book in his pack, brushes the orange peel and tobacco aside. "No, Alfred. If we see each other again, we will be trying to kill each other."

Alfred lowers his eyes, brushes his own orange peel into the scrub. "Ah, we'll see."

"Yes." Arthur sounds uncertain, yet oddly hopeful. "I suppose we will."

Arthur turns to look behind as he leaves: straight, hard and proud in a uniform of red, white and blue. His eyes meet Alfred's, not dead and unseeing as the British eyes Alfred used to know, but curious and confused and darkened with something warm and unfamiliar. Alfred's heart aches to see him go, an ache he has never felt, one which brightens his world and darkens it at the same time.

In the growing darkness, the red, white and blue of Arthur's uniform blend with his golden hair and white skin and blazing green eyes. Colours indistinguishable.

* * *

_And then white..._

* * *

_The famous line, "__But when the blast of war blows in our ears, T__hen imitate the action of the tiger: stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood," is from the great play 'Henry V.' The book of 'poetry' Arthur reads from is, of course, Shakespeare. _


	2. White

**WHITE**

* * *

The second time, Arthur is surrounded. He clutches the white cloth of surrender in his hand, his only defence against the unseen American rebels who search the surrounding woods. His rifle is empty; his body exhausted. Arthur barely knows where he is, or how he got here, or even why he keeps running. He _does_ know that the white cloth is useless. If they find him, they will kill him.

The white moon is just appearing in the cobalt sky, shining through the menacing, black trees, high and full and larger than Arthur has ever seen it. He curses it silently. He curses the coming night, he curses the rebels, he curses this surprise assault that has seen him cut off from his troops for the second time in a month. Arthur is tired of this. His bones ache and his breath burns his lungs. Arthur is tired of fighting. Two years fighting American rebels, fifteen fighting enemies of Britain, thirty-three years fighting life itself. Arthur does not know what peace is.

Footsteps grow distant as Arthur approaches the border of the trees. The outline of a building appears nearby, broken and overgrown, a russet brown signal of hope against the darkening sky. Arthur runs to it. The underbrush crunches beneath his boots, his heart pounds in his throat; his rifle is heavy on his shoulder and the white cloth heavy in his hand. Free of the cloaking trees, the white moon is a silent enemy. But the rebels do not follow. Their voices are gone.

The building was once a stable, perhaps, or a barn, or a small, solitary house ransacked and discarded. Arthur falls through the cracked wooden door and collapses against the cold, hard wall. He runs a hand over his eyes, gasps in disbelief, lets out a shuddering exhalation of release. In this moment, he is safe; he is alive. In this moment, he is lost and empty and exhausted.

"Arthur!"

The voice pierces Arthur's skin like a bullet. His heart surges, his blood fires, his breath stops at that one startling, piercing word. His eyes fly open and his harsh, crowded world narrows only to this. "Alfred."

The golden rebel sits against the opposite wall, vivid and real and alive, his hand clutching his arm and his legs stretched before him. His smile is as bright as that afternoon by the river, his eyes as brilliantly blue. Not a day has passed that Arthur has not thought of that afternoon. Thought of his golden rebel, who smiled like the sun through the willow trees, who shared oranges and refused tobacco and listened, enthralled, to simple lines of poetry. His golden rebel who was only supposed to be a memory. But what use is it to marvel at coincidence in times like these? Alfred's blue jacket is discarded beside him and his white shirt is stained with red. Arthur crosses the room, his white cloth of surrender falling from his fingers. "You are injured."

Alfred laughs, and the sound brings the yellow sun and the blue sky into this dull, moon-dappled room. "Nah, it's nothin.' Just my arm. Got nicked by one of them muskets with a knife on the end."

"Bayonet." Arthur's heart aches strangely. So the boy has seen battle. He has faced weapons he can not even name. Arthur kneels by Alfred's side, taking water, bandages, and a full jar of salve from his pack.

"Arthur. I knew I'd see you again. I knew it was fate." Alfred smiles, bright and blinding, and barely winces as Arthur cleans the wound.

Arthur marvels at that white smile in a place as black as this. "It is not fate. It is coincidence."

"It's destiny." Alfred believes so insistently.

Arthur does not argue. Alfred's skin is soft to touch and hard with strength. It is the purest thing Arthur has felt in too many years of this slaughter called war.

"I got lost again, Arthur." Alfred laughs again, harsher this time, still clearer than anything Arthur has ever heard. "I don't think I know what I'm doin,' really."

"That's all right, Alfred. In the end, none of us really know what we are doing."

"Are you lost?" Alfred's voice seeks reassurance.

"Yes." Arthur feels he can admit it. This place is bright and dark and elsewhere, caught between the black trees and the white moon, like a cottage from a folktale. In this black, white place, Arthur can admit it. "Yes, Alfred. I'm lost."

"Funny, ain't it, Arthur? How when we get lost we end up findin' each other."

Arthur is confused, intrigued and enthralled by this laughing, golden rebel. Why, of all the thousands of men Arthur has passed in his life, is it this innocent enemy who so easily reaches into his soul and marks his memory and reminds him he has a heart?

The cut is shallow, and Arthur ties the bandage with too-practiced ease. Alfred touches the white bandage gently, almost fascinated. "I won't die?"

A smile swells from Arthur's chest and tugs at his lips. "No. You will not die not from this scratch."

Alfred does not smile. He looks up slowly, black lashes painting shadows on white cheeks, wide eyes shining blue in the moonlight. "But if they find us, they will kill us."

Arthur knows that is true. Their uniforms together are a death sentence. The redcoats or the rebels: both would shoot to see this red, white and blue. Still, he says, "No, Alfred. The rebel army has passed, and the British regiment is marching to the west." Arthur immediately winces. He has said too much.

Alfred does not notice. "But they might find us." He speaks softly, a breathless whisper in the silence. "They might, Arthur. They might burn the barn."

Arthur does not know if Alfred speaks of the British or the rebels. Either way, it hits him like an accusation, and unwelcome memories assault Arthur of orange flames and black hearts and blazing, crimson screams. "No. They will not burn us."

Alfred pushes on, heedless of the words. "We might die here," he says, broken and stubborn, like a child refusing to be corrected. "I might die, and I ain't never known so much as a kiss."

The words sink in slowly. Arthur's narrowed world shrinks further: to Alfred's rising chest, his heavy breath, to his soft, hard skin still firm beneath Arthur's fingers. Slightly uncertain, Arthur slowly meets Alfred's gaze. But the eyes that meet his are not afraid. They are intense and honest and hopeful; they are the clearest blue Arthur has ever seen. Arthur tightens his grip on Alfred's arm. "A kiss?"

Alfred smells like golden fields, like the sweeping sky in spring, like the clear, beading sweat at the edges of his hair. Like freedom; like peace. His hand is gentle strength on the back of Arthur's neck. "Please," he whispers, his lips parted and seeking. Arthur can only accept his plea. Arthur can only surrender.

Alfred's lips are like fire, his hands like wind. He kisses like he is burning and only Arthur can soothe the flames. Arthur yields to his urgency, rises to his need, but calms Alfred's intensity with slow touches and gentle words. Lace, ties and buttons melt undone. The red, white and blue falls forgotten to the floor. This place is still bright and dark and elsewhere; but now nothing is black, and nothing is white.

Arthur has lain with an army of men. Faceless military encounters, snatched behind barracks and beneath tents, with those who make love like they are fighting for power. Hasty, shameful trysts, in rooms that smell of wine and powder, with those whose love is bought and sold. And long ago nights that seemed to last forever; lost in the arms of ones who promised, ones who adored, but ones who never came back for him.

But this is different. This feels right; it feels pure. Alfred's golden skin shines in the moonlight, warm and trembling as he lies naked against Arthur, as he gasps and sighs and seeks continually for Arthur's lips. His blue eyes turn dark and wide with amazement when Arthur lies back and parts his thighs and guides Alfred inside. His voice is like song as it catches in breathless surprise. Arthur feels young, and he feels old, and though he is stained with death and sin this golden rebel makes him feel white and new again. In this moment he is safe; he is alive. In this moment he is found and filled and restored.

As night stretches into morning, lips and hands grow bolder, until Arthur loses count of the times they share their pleasure with each other. It is bold and white and searing; it breaks down every part of him and builds him back into someone who cares, someone who feels. They gasp, moan and sigh; they speak, touch and laugh; they finally collapse, sated and exhausted, limbs entangled and the jar of salve empty on the floor. Arthur thinks that he could stay here in this folktale cottage forever. He thinks that he could abandon his regiment and deny this war. Arthur thinks that now, finally, he knows what peace is.

"Arthur." Alfred's arms are too tight, too desperate. They are the only place Arthur has ever wanted to stay. The floor is hard beneath them, but Arthur barely feels it. "Arthur," Alfred says again, his voice low and hoarse in the cool morning air. "Folks might say this is wrong. But… but it don't feel wrong, Arthur."

"It's not." Arthur whispers the words into Alfred's sweat-dampened hair. He believes them. He lets himself forget this boy is an enemy, forget this boy is half his age. "It's not wrong, Alfred." The smell of rain comes with the dawn, fresh and clean, and for the first time Arthur does not feel dirty with another man's sweat on his skin.

Alfred turns his head towards Arthur, seeks his lips again. "Rain's comin.'"

Rain. Morning. Separation. Unwelcome reality crawls into Arthur's mind, sits like a heavy stone in his gut. He can not stay here. He can not deny this war. He has only known one night of peace, and he never realised one night was so short. He sighs wearily. "Rain at dawn. Do you like the rain, Alfred?"

Alfred's laugh is only a breathy sigh, but it still brings the yellow sun into the room. "Sure. When I smell the rain comin' I like to lie in the fields, watchin' the sky and waitin' for the raindrops to fall. I'd sure love to watch the sky with you, Arthur."

Arthur doesn't answer, but he thinks that nothing could be more beautiful than watching the sky with his golden rebel. He wishes he could fight back this cruel, callous day, could cling to the full, white moon he earlier cursed so foolishly. Arthur has never felt such bitter hatred for the rising sun. And even now, Alfred's eyes are earnest, and honest, and hopeful.

"I still believe in destiny, Arthur. I believe I'll see you again."

Arthur leans into Alfred's embrace like he believes him. But he believes differently to Alfred. He believes he will rejoin his regiment. He believes he will continue to fight without knowing why. He believes Alfred is too good and too foolish for any of this. Arthur believes this night is the purest, deepest peace he has ever known, and daylight will burn it away.

A single beam of light pierces the roof, falls on two entangled uniforms; a discarded pile of duty and hate. In the brightening dawn, the red, white and blue blur before Arthur's eyes. Colours indistinguishable.

* * *

_And then red…_


	3. Red

**RED**

* * *

The last time, Alfred stands in line, rows of white and blue facing rows of red and black. Throbbing drums pound a hot, dull ache into his head; bitter winds slice lines of ice into his skin. This battlefield is burning cold today, loud and silent like a place removed, its forested edges bordered by the last of the winter snowdrifts. Alfred feels lost in these rows of blue-clad strangers who are supposed to be his allies. After two long years, Alfred does not know these men. Too many come, and too many go, and too many fall and lose and die. But Alfred is bound by chains of red, white, and blue, and his rifle is an anchor on his shoulder. The ground is trampled green beneath his feet; the sky is blazing crimson behind oppressive clouds above. Alfred knows this country, he loves this country, but he has never felt its ground so trampled or seen its sky so red.

The years are long, and Alfred is tired of this. They say this will be over soon, but they say so many things, and Alfred has long learnt that not all words are told in truth. The world is nothing now but lies on lies when all he ever wanted was the simple and the real. But life is not simple, and it never will be, for now Alfred has bled and fought and his once white hands are stained with blood. These age-old lines of blue and red advance; these eternal drums thread their hate through his veins. But Alfred does not want to kill, and he does not want to die. He does not want these coloured chains or this metal anchor; he does not want this trampled ground and this red sky. Alfred wants that blue afternoon by a river, he wants that white night in a forgotten barn. But now his days are red and his nights are black, and his Redcoat Lion is not here to find him. Yet still Alfred believes in fate, and he believes in destiny, because when nothing makes sense you have to believe in something.

This is familiar now: the pounding drums, the shouted orders, this thick storm of descending chaos. This is too familiar, and Alfred's blood aches with it, with too many months facing muskets and cannons and men who follow different orders than his. This is familiar, yet it is always a shock when the lines meet and the colours clash, when the screaming haze of battle descends and his row of white and blue turns red with heat and blood. These shouted orders never make sense; Alfred does not want these orders. He is still a nameless front-row soldier, because he still does not know what he is doing, and he will never understand these rows of red and black.

A man falls to his side; a man falls before him. Alfred fires and a Redcoat falls. The white snowdrifts turn quickly red. Alfred pushes forward through this senseless haze, but he does not know where he is going; he presses through a mass of red, white and blue without knowing who these colours belong to. A moment passes, a lifetime passes, then a stunning rifle butt sends Alfred sprawling to the trampled ground. His weapon is torn from his grasp. He tries to push himself to his knees. Mud-stained boots pass before his eyes; the dead already litter the green-turned-red ground around him. Alfred is lost. His heart pounds in his ears, louder than those hateful drums and those blasting cannons. Alfred is too confused to feel afraid. He can not move; he can not get up.

"Alfred."

Alfred gasps at the unreal sound of his own name. He turns his head. The roar of battle fades; the blazing screams die away. Everything slows and stops until there is nothing, nothing but brilliant green eyes, looking up at him and staring through him and turning the world back into something simple and real and understandable. Arthur laughs faintly, nothing more than a breathless gasp on the icy wind. "Alfred. Fancy meeting a chap like you… in a place like this."

Alfred forces himself to move, drags his heavy body through the green-red mud. "Arthur," he breathes, desperate and believing. He reaches out and grasps Arthur's hand, clutches it like a drowning man clinging to land. "Arthur," he says again, laughing, heedless of the clashing battle that rages around them. Seeing his Redcoat Lion, Alfred forgets the last two years, and again he is young and foolish; again he is lost and found. "Didn't I tell you, Arthur? It's destiny. I told you I'd see you again."

Arthur lies unmoving in the mud, his chest rising too fast, his words too slow and too laboured. His rifle lies broken beside him. "Don't be absurd, Alfred. This is simply another… extraordinary coincidence." Arthur takes too long to breathe and Alfred takes too long to notice. Too-pale hands clutch torn cloth and too-dark skin. Alfred blinks at the red on white on red.

"Ye're bleedin.'"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Arthur manages another breathless gasp. "Musket. Rifle. Bayonet, perhaps. I'm not certain."

Alfred can only stare, this impossible moment ripping understanding from his grasp. "But you have bandages, Arthur. You can fix it. You can fix it, like you fixed my arm in that cabin, don't you remember?"

"Every moment." Arthur's green eyes darken, and his hand grows warmer in Alfred's grasp. "But bandages can not fix this."

Alfred hears, he understands, but he refuses. He knew he would see Arthur again, he waited to see him again, he survived two blood-soaked years to see him again, but… "Not like this..."

Arthur begins an apology, as though he is to blame for the metal in his gut. Alfred refuses to hear such an apology. He gasps for the icy air and grasps for the pack by Arthur's side. He searches swiftly for something familiar, something to stop this bewildering haze, but there are no white bandages and no more oranges and the book of poetry is red with blood. Arthur gently squeezes Alfred's hand, shakes his head. Alfred lowers his eyes, ignores the screams and the orders and the passing boots that strike up the mud. His hand falls empty and defeated from the barren pack.

"I think I'm lost, Arthur."

"That's all right, Alfred. So am I." His Redcoat Lion always knows what to say.

"I found you, though." Alfred never knows what to say.

"You did." Arthur smiles, a simple line of truth in this stack of lies. "You came back. You are the only one who ever came back."

"I'll always come back." Alfred runs streaks of mud through golden hair, wipes drops of red from paling white lips. "I'll always come back for you." Alfred speaks words that can't be true, words he wishes he could mean, words that draw red-tinged tears from glassy green eyes.

"It's all right, Alfred." Arthur whispers softer than the wind, but Alfred hears him through the chaos and he wonders why it is Arthur who is reassuring him. "It's all right." Nonsense words, because it is not all right, but Alfred clings to them nonetheless.

"I don't want this, Arthur. This ain't like I imagined, and I don't want it. I…" Alfred pauses and chokes on his words. "I don't know what to do."

Arthur's breath is warm on Alfred's cheek. "Go home, Alfred."

Those two words are a clear strike of lightning in this thick, stormy battlefield. "But… I can't do that. That'd make me a traitor, and I ain't no coward." Alfred knows he fights for his country's freedom, for his country's fate. But even though he knows the reasons, Alfred does not know why Arthur's skin is white and his tears so red for such a thing as freedom.

"No." Arthur smiles as he says it. He smiles as he bleeds, as he breaks the chains of red, white and blue. "You have fought enough. You have been brave enough. Now it is your time to go home. Go home, Alfred, and leave these battlegrounds for old men like me. Go home to your blue sky."

"Come with me." Alfred knows it is hopeless. "Come home with me, Arthur, and then you won't be lost no more."

Arthur's red lips part, his green eyes flare. Arthur is warm and cold. He is Alfred's Redcoat Lion; his enemy and his adoration. He is noble and strong. He is all the simplicity and truth in the world, clutching to Alfred's hand and bleeding out in the mud. "But I'm not lost anymore. You found me, remember?"

Alfred always believed in destiny. But he does not understand why his destiny would give him this moment. He does not understand why it would lead him to Arthur, only to take him away. Maybe there was a reason, but here in the dirt and the noise Alfred does not understand. Maybe his fate was to follow Arthur's order to go home, or maybe it was simply to be with Arthur as he bled. Maybe it was so they could find each other, for only a few moments, whether by a blue lake or in a white cabin or in the midst of a blood-red battlefield. And maybe there never was a reason at all.

Alfred touches Arthur's white lips; touches his red tears. Alfred can see Arthur coming home to his farm in Virginia. He can see him patting the dogs and riding the horses and laughing as they run together to the river. Alfred can see Arthur with his brilliant layer of gold but without his coat of red. He can see him running through deep green forests under a sky of blue, lying in golden fields and watching the grey clouds darken overhead. In the midst of this brutal, bleeding battlefield, Alfred can see his Redcoat Lion lying with him under other, bluer, peaceful skies.

"Rain's comin', Arthur." Alfred whispers the words. "Watch the sky with me."

But Arthur does not respond. His eyes should be curious and brilliant and green as willow trees. But now they do not flash, or darken, or narrow; now they stare unseeing, and the first drops of rain mix with the last of his tears. Alfred feels his chest break and his dreams fade. There will be no deep green forest; there will be no sky of blue. There is only this bleeding battlefield, and these red clouds are the only sky Alfred will watch with Arthur.

Alfred lies his head in the mud, clutches tightly to Arthur's hand, and looks up as the darkened clouds open. But he does not see. The screaming storm of battle begins to recede. He does not hear. Those orders keep shouting, but they still make no sense, and he still does not want them. After two long years, Alfred just wants it to stop, because here by Arthur's side is the only place he has ever wanted to stay.

This red sky is not the sky Alfred wants; so he closes his eyes to it. He can not change this fate. He can not mend this cruel destiny. He can only wait to go home with Arthur. So Alfred holds to Arthur's hand, feeling it turn slowly cold, as the rain turns the blood and the snow and the last of the trampled green to mud around them. As lips turn blue, and skin turns white, and all turns red.

_Colours indistinguishable._

* * *

_The End._


End file.
